Between the Devil and the Deep
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: How art thou fallen from Heaven, o Lucifer, son of the morning! [Lucifer x OC] [pre-series]


**Title:** Between the Devil and the Deep  
**Genre:** Romance / Angst / Supernatural  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Lucifer x OC  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** How art thou fallen from Heaven, o Lucifer, son of the morning!  
**Word Count:** 1,278  
**Warnings:** Clearly I'm taking liberties with biblical history.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Summary is from Paradise Lost (as is "Pandemonium.")

**A/N:** Is it wrong to be so obsessed with someone who plays the Devil? Oh, well.

* * *

He falls and it is terrifying.

In all his long years, though he last left him home in Heaven, he has never _left_ before. There is no option to return, save as conqueror. There is no path to welcoming arms to fall into, save the demons in Hell. It will be his new home, he will rule there as his father never did for he and his siblings. He will let his subjects be different – be unique – be powerful. They will love him with free choice, not with mindless devotion.

Falling hurts.

He will miss his brother Michael. They are the oldest of their father's children. Michael, the right hand of the Lord. Lucifer, the most beautiful. But Michael has no desire to be any different from what he is. He does not want to be special. He wants to be the same. An angel as all other. God's children. Above humans, but still somehow below them, for God loves his mortal creations more.

His wings trail smoke and ash as he hurtles through the heavens, falling every downward. Hell is empty – there are no devils here, not yet. It is just him. A smattering of demons who are without order, without purpose. So he collects them, builds them up, makes them better. There is order now: there are Princes and knights and crossroad demons. There are levels and rankings. They work suited to their purpose and their will. If they want to change, he lets them. They adore him for it, they love him. He is their great leader, sitting on his throne in Pandemonium

His crossroad demons are beside themselves trying to please him, they bring in soul after soul. His hellhounds work hard to keep up. His demons work hard to torture. They are busy and successful and it almost makes him forget his thwarted attempt to take the throne of heaven for himself. Almost.

So he travels to the mortal realm, where the stench of humans is thick and cloying, where he can look disdainfully on his father's most precious creature, he most beloved children, and remember how much he hates them. It is not jealousy, he tells himself over and over again. But it is.

"Sir, are you quite well?"

He looks up, startled at the voice and that he thoughts so consumed him he did not notice their presence, into the wide green eyes of a young woman. She is staring at him intently, her brow furrowed as she tries to decide whether he is lost or potentially crazy. Her hair is as red as poppy petals, curling like a lion's mane around her freckled face.

"Yes." He turns away from her, drawing his gaze back to rolling green fields dotted with farmers and their crops and flocks.

"You dinna look it."

Irritated, he turns back to her, eyes flashing, but she is staring beyond him at the view. Her profile is startling perfect for the age – arched lines and smooth skin. She wears men's clothes, which is uncommon, and her very air is someone completely unconcerned with the thoughts of her on others. "What's it to you?"

A slow shrug. "You're standing in my fields, lad, looking as lost as a changeling child. It felt like my business."

He blinks. "Your fields?"

And with that they are drawn into conversation.

Her name is Shannon McCloud. Her father had one son, but many daughters. So she watched her elder brother be groomed to take her father's land – he was taught to read, and write, to ride, to farm, to fight, to trade. While her sisters were traded off like cattle as wives. When it was her turn, she refused. When her father threatened to disown her, she left. She created her own clan, and now she ran it here.

She was like him.

He does not actively seek her out, but still, he finds himself there more often than not. The vessel that he is in is not perfect, but it is strong enough for a time, so he continues to use it. A tall, dark-haired man. He reminds Lucifer of Michael, in a way – a warrior. He watches her tend to her clan, as artfully as any leader he has ever seen. And he has seen many. She has appointed guards and warriors. There are schools and apothecaries and markets. It is as well-oiled as his own Hell. He is, sluggishly, unaccustomedly, impressed.

But human vessels bleed through with human emotions and it is not long before the thoughts that he finds himself thinking are strange and new. _He notices the way her breeches cling to her ass when she bends to lift a sack of flour. His eyes note the long palms, the graceful fingers, and wonder, fleetingly what they would feel like wrapped around him. When she frowns, she purses her lips and he imagines what they feel like under his own._

But she is human, and he is more, better. But he is tempted. And he never did do well with temptation.

Her skin is soft everywhere – except her hands, which are calloused and rough and feel like sandpaper when she slide down the length of his spine. They feel like sandpaper when they are wrapped around him, but sometimes she will drop to her knees, as gracefully as a courtesan, and take him in her mouth. The smooth slide of tongue and the scrap of teeth are enough to make him fuck her mouth like a mindless animal. But she does not mind – loves it when he uses his inhuman strength to slam her into the wall of the castle, pinning her like a butterfly on a canvas. She loves the scratch of stone against her back, and the piston of flesh in her front. She makes the most interesting noises.

But she loves when they are high in the hills in the fields of heather, the air heady and fragrant with flowers, the bees buzzing around them. He does not care for those things, but they make her sigh like a maiden, trail her hands up and down his spine and into his hair. She is gentle with him when they are there, and it is novel and different and disconcerting. But her mouth is soft against his own there, a smooth, glide of lips against lips that make him sigh into her mouth, an echo of her own breath.

Falling hurts.

He imagines this is what made his father love them so much more than his firstborn children. They are bright – as bright as he, the morning star – they shine with the strength of their years, so fleeting and fast. Now there are laugh line around her eyes, now her brow furrows with wrinkles that were not there. Sometimes the hike to the heather makes her lose her breath, and he knows that he is losing her. She is a summer flower, past her bloom, petals falling one by one, and for all his strength there is nothing he can do but watch. Humans fall in love so easily, his father loved so freely. But angels did not. Made of sternness and stone. But now he is changed.

He falls and it is terrifying.


End file.
